when the marinara sauce
spit on to the white stove top,
you swayed your flower skirt
across the field
under the tall trees,
holding his hand.
it didn't matter that
your Latvian cousin had attractive
hair, he couldn't
laugh the same.
i go away from the dock
down the beaten, bouncing
trail; the shore tree's
roots spring.
the water makes chilled sounds
up out of the shades.